To Hold His Hand
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary Morstan learns what it means to commit after a lifetime of moving on. How does a staunchly self-reliant orphan with no family and no lasting friendships learn to trust enough to put her life into another's hands?
1. Chapter 1

The first few chapters of this story take place after the events of "Oddly Detached" and before "Mary". I'm not sure how many chapters long it will be—depends on how it goes over! For the record, I've been married for 33 years, and holding hands with my husband never gets old.

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"Oh, I'll tell you something

I think you'll understand

When I say that something

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

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She sat across from him at the table and did not know where to look. She could not remember ever being this nervous before in her life. But sitting in Angelo's on their very first date, Mary Morstan was about as far from calm as she could be. After insulting John Watson by obviously avoiding him for over a year, how could she now make him understand how very sorry she was for the loss of time, and how very interested she was in getting to know him? Very, most intensely, interested.

The past two weeks had been the most exciting time of her life, as she trailed behind John and his detective friend watching them solve the ten-year-old mystery of her father's disappearance. She had learned that her father had been murdered, and the murderers had been caught; but more importantly, she had learned that all the vicious gossip in the office about Dr. Watson had been completely wrong. The more she got to know about the real John Watson, the more she wanted to know. She was sure he was the most extraordinary person she'd ever met.

"Not running away from me anymore then?" he had asked her that day in the office over lunch. He had been amused—she had been embarrassed. And he had been amazed to learn that he had a reputation at work as a thoroughgoing rake. He had asked her out to dinner—she had eagerly accepted. He had picked her up at eight. And here she sat feeling like a school-girl with a crush, suddenly unable to look him in the face without blushing. Her eyes lit instead on his hands, holding the menu.

His hands. She had seen those hands gently soothe frightened toddlers and elderly patients alike at the clinic over the past year. She had seen him save lives with those healing hands; bind up wounds, set bones, suture torn flesh. She had known he was an army doctor in a previous life; it had not occurred to her that he had been both a skilled surgeon and an equally skilled sniper. How many people, she wondered, owed their lives to this man's hands? How many lives had those hands taken? Oddly enough, she felt certain that she had fallen in love with John Watson during the wild chase on the Thames in a fishing yacht, when he had saved all their lives with an impossible shot of his service weapon, held in steady and competent hands.

"I'll have my usual," John said to Angelo cheerfully, handing over the menu.

"Um," Mary hedged. She had not once glanced at her menu, having been distracted by her thoughts. "I'll have what John's having."

Angelo looked disapproving, but whisked away to put in their orders. He had made it clear when he showed them to their table that he thought Sherlock Holmes should have been sitting in her chair. Mary hid a smile. Half of London seemed to believe that John was gay and Sherlock's boyfriend. The other half held the opinion that John was an incorrigible womanizer, fully living up to his army-given nickname of "Three Continents Watson." The truth, she was finding, was ever so much deeper, so much more complicated, so much more interesting than any rumor.

And what would it be like, she mused as she sampled the wine, to hold John Watson's hand?


	2. Chapter 2

"Yeah, you got that something

I think you'll understand

When I feel that something

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

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They had spent as much time as possible together during the next two and half weeks. John had been busy helping Sherlock with a case for several days in a row. But when he was at the clinic, they took every lunch and tea break together, and often even managed to meet for morning coffee before their shift began. Dates included four walks in three different parks, bundled in heavy coats and hats and scarves as the temperatures plummeted; seven dinners out at a fun assortment of restaurants; and two Saturday excursions to some of London's marvelous museums. Mary had never thought she would meet someone with whom she had so much in common. They never seemed to run out of things to do or to talk about. They had enjoyed the same books; they liked the same movies; they had the same tastes in food. Their lives seemed to merge effortlessly, as if they had (to use a cliché) been made for each other.

But in all that time, John never tried to so much as hold Mary's hand.

He was always a perfect gentleman. It wasn't an act—she could see that it had been bred into him and old-fashioned courtesy came as naturally to him as breathing. But she could also see that he had been mortified by her revelation concerning his rakish reputation and was determined to prove it wrong. She understood this. After all, he was perfectly aware that she had avoided him like a disease when she thought he was an opportunistic womanizer. He would not want her to wonder whether there might be something to the stories about him after all. And so he never tried anything. Not anything. At all.

He politely offered his arm whenever they were walking together, through parks or down the street, and she held onto him gladly. Her hand, clutching the inside of his elbow, fitted there perfectly in her opinion. A few times, as they navigated a crowded area, he had placed a protective hand on her shoulder as they negotiated their way through. She had never needed "help" before, simply to get from point A to point B. But she was finding it pleasant to be cared for and treated like lady, as if she were important and deserved special treatment. Still, she did wonder how long it might take for the gentleman to give way to the man.

Now their date tonight had become a revelation to Mary, although John was constantly surprising her. They had gone to a pub, and as they were leaving, she uttered a startled squeak. A rude chap had followed after them and grabbed her rear, making a lewd suggestion in a very loud, drunken voice. Before he had finished his disgusting comment, he was on his back on the floor with John's foot on this throat. Several people in the room stirred to help, but John stilled them with a sweeping, authoritative glance and an upraised hand.

"I believe you owe the lady an apology," John stated calmly.

The drunken fellow grabbed John's foot and twisted, but instantly stopped with a yelp of pain as John pressed harder against the man's Adam's apple.

"Don't move or I'll break your larynx," John informed him in a conversational tone. "I'm a doctor—I know how to break people."

"All right, all right!" the drunk cried, holding his hands in the air to show his surrender. "Just let me go!"

John sighed. "Can't do that, mate. Not until my girlfriend hears an apology." His casual tone now held an undercurrent of icy menace that would have frozen the bravest man's spine.

"I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry!" he cried, panicked.

John looked at Mary and quirked an eyebrow. She shrugged. "I accept your sincere apology," she said graciously.

John nodded and lifted his foot. "That's better. Being polite has its own rewards, mate. Remember that." And he took Mary's elbow and they walked out the door.

They hadn't gone far before a meaty hand clamped down on John's shoulder from behind them. "I ain't done with you," a menacing voice slurred. Mary gasped as John whirled around, quick as a thought, and bloodied the drunk's nose with a loud crunch of bone. Down the man went again and cracked his head on the pavement with a cry. John knelt beside him and dutifully checked him out with practiced hands as two more men approached at a jog. John looked up at them with a baleful eye.

"Friends of his?" he asked dryly, standing up slowly with a dangerous look. They nodded warily, backing away a few steps. "He'll be all right," they were assured grimly. "Get him home, and next time keep him on a leash, why don't you? For his own good, if not for the good of society." They nodded again and picked up their unconscious friend and carried him away as quickly as they could.

Mary had been aware that John was a dangerous man. She had, after all, fallen in love with him even as she watched him kill a man (a man who was strafing their boat with semi-automatic gunfire) with a cold precision that ought to have frightened her. Now she knew he was more than that. He was a man she could rely on; who had a sense of right and wrong and followed through on it. She had never had anyone in her life who could be called reliable in any way. This was a new feeling for her, and one she knew she could grow to like very much.

As they proceeded down the street, she looked up at him with a mischievous grin. "Your girlfriend now, am I?" she asked impishly.

"Hmm. Would you like to be?" he asked, smiling back at her hopefully. Gone was the steely soldier. He looked charmingly like a bashful schoolboy on his first date.

Yes, it would be up to her to take the initiative here, Mary realized. John was apparently very concerned with protecting her from unwanted attention, even from himself. And so she reached over and grabbed his hand; and his fingers closed over hers in a very satisfactory way, even though they were both wearing gloves against the November cold. She smiled at him, twinkling with joy.

"I'd like nothing better," she assured him, squeezing his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

"And when I touch you I feel happy inside.

It's such a feeling that my love

I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide. . . ."

Lennon/McCartney

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It was two days before Mary saw John again. As they headed back to Mary's flat from the fateful pub, gloved hands clinging, John received a frantic phone call from D. I. Lestrade begging him to come and help him with Sherlock. In an uncharacteristic burst of generosity, Sherlock had gone to a crime scene without summoning his blogger, and was wreaking havoc on an unprecedented scale. John saw Mary to her door, and then offered his apologies as he rushed to the rescue. She couldn't help but notice that, although he seemed sorry to see their evening end so soon, he was eager to be of help to his friends.

He'd called out of work the next morning, then called Mary to cancel their date for that night. It was a complicated case, and Sherlock needed him. "This is good," Mary thought. "We've been moving along at a break-neck pace in this relationship. We need a bit of breathing space."

Indeed, she could not help but spend this interim reflecting on what she had done these past three weeks. If Mary Morstan had learned anything in her short time on earth, it was that people were not permanent. Everyone she had ever allowed herself to care for or depend on in her youth had disappeared all too soon. She had quickly learned to hold the world at arm's-length and to never allow herself to need anyone. And then came John Watson.

"What the hell am I doing?" she asked herself over and over. Why had she let her guard down? Why was she setting herself up for heartbreak? She believed John would never hurt her on purpose. But he was a man who ran towards danger when everyone was running away. And here she was, a simple doctor with an ordinary life, hoping to capture his attention? She was certain he was not deliberately toying with her affections, but surely reality would hit him sooner or later and he would get . . . bored with her. It seemed to her that a man addicted to adrenalin would be attracted to a . . . well, a secret agent, perhaps; an international spy. Not someone like plain little Mary Morstan.

And yet. . . .

And yet, she was addicted, too. To John, and to his life. And she found that she would rather be hurt by John Watson than loved by anyone . . . safer. And on reflection, had she really only been avoiding relationships to avoid being hurt, or because she honestly found most people to be unbearably boring? Wasn't that why she had fallen for John? Because he was not-boring?

By the time John called on the evening of the second day, Mary had taken honest stock of her situation and had decided that she would rather have as much time with John as possible and end up with a broken heart than be bored and regretful for the rest of her life. She would take as much time as he would give her, and be grateful. Now, on their way to the cinema, gloved hand in gloved hand, she knew that she wanted this relationship more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. It was worth risking everything for the chance of spending her life with him.

The darkened theater made her bold. As they sat, sharing a popcorn, she reached over and nudged his hand with hers. She was gratified that he immediately clasped her hand in his, interlacing their fingers. And she altogether lost the plot of the film they were watching, submerged in the warmth that radiated from his hand into hers. The gloves were off now, and feel of his palm against hers was both comforting and exhilarating in a way she'd never expected. After all, it wasn't as if she'd never held hands with a man before. But this was John's hand. Her mind remained suspended in dreams anchored to John's hand until the lights came up again.

Sitting in a café afterwards, Mary smiled into his eyes. "Did you enjoy the film?" she asked, wondering what she would say if he asked her the same.

"Um, I don't know, really. I sort of lost track of it somehow," he replied a bit sheepishly.

"So did I," she admitted, her dimples showing. "I got a bit distracted, I think." She looked at his hands, now resting on the table, and gasped. The knuckles of his left hand were bruised and cut and a bit swollen. "Oh, dear! I'm so glad I was sitting to your right in the theater!"

He glanced down at his hand and grimaced. "Oh, that. That's just a legacy from an altercation last night. Someone got a bit reluctant to submit to arrest and needed persuading."

Without thinking what she was doing, Mary gently took his damaged hand in both of hers and raised it to her lips. After kissing them, she pressed the backs of his fingers against her cheek and smiled. "All better now," she sang.

He turned his hand to cup her face. "Yeah, I think so, too," he said softly.

Just like that, the Mary Morstan who never trusted herself to anyone was gone forever, and her heart was placed firmly in John Watson's hands.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter takes place immediately after the events of the chapter entitled "Mary and Molly" in the story "Making Friends and Forming Alliances." This might make more sense if you read that story first.

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"And please say to me

You'll let me hold your hand.

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

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During the taxi ride back to her flat from St. Bart's, Mary could not bring herself to let go of John's hand. He was describing his and Sherlock's evening activities to her, and during the course of his narrative, she came to understand why they had had to keep her and Molly waiting at St. Bart's for three hours without a word. She just hoped that he had not noticed how frightened she had been. He had not seemed to. He was talking to her in a perfectly normal, casual manner. "I just have to get used to this," she told herself firmly. "This is his job. He does dangerous work, and sometimes he'll be out of contact, maybe for days, maybe even weeks. If I want to be part of his life, I'll just have to learn to deal with it."

He had texted her, asking her to meet him and Sherlock at Bart's after work, but then they had been held up. "It's okay. They know I'll wait her for them as long as it takes," Molly had said, unconcerned. The young pathologist was used to their chaotic life and was also brave and trusting and didn't indulge herself in pointless worry. Mary wished acutely that she could be more like the tranquil Molly. Instead, she had grown more and more anxious as the hours had stretched on, imagining all sorts of horrible things that might explain the delay.

"You and Molly were certainly not idle while we were gone," John now observed cheerfully. "Sherlock seemed quite impressed with your analysis of that body."

"It was Molly's work. I just helped," Mary told him, amazed that her voice sounded perfectly normal. "I liked working with her, though. I hope we get to do more things together."

They had now arrived at her block of flats. She had to let go of his hand so that he could get out of the taxi and walk around to hold her door for her. He paid the fare and then she snagged his hand again as they approached the front of the building. "He's going to know something's wrong," she thought, frowning a bit. "He's going to know. What will he do when he finds out what a useless coward I am?"

He took her key and unlocked her door for her, holding it for her to enter before him. After four months of dating this man, it still filled her with wonder that he did these little, caring things for her. Was he the last man in England with these beautifully chivalrous manners? Perhaps that was why this was the first time since they had started seeing each other that he had not let her know when he was going to be late.

"I'll put the kettle on," she offered, and wandered into the kitchen, leaving him in the sitting room to start a fire in the fireplace. The act of making tea calmed her nerves immensely, and the sound of a crackling fire greeting her as she carried the tray in to him was comforting. She sat beside him on the sofa and poured his cuppa just as he liked it.

"So now we're alone, Mary," he said tentatively, after taking his first sip. "Will you tell me what's bothering you?"

She set her cup down and looked into its depths. "What makes you think anything's bothering me?"

He sighed. "Did I do something to upset you? No, don't answer that," he retracted quickly. "I know I did something to upset you. It's because we kept you waiting so long, isn't it? I ought to have texted you, but since we were undercover it would have raised suspicions with the client, and I thought. . . ."

"John, stop," she interrupted. "I'm not upset with you about anything. I'm upset with myself, that's all. It's nothing to do with you. I'll work it out myself."

He set his teacup down and ran a hand over his face. "Mary, I . . . look, I know I've no right to say this, but. . . . anything that upsets you upsets me, as well. I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "It's really nothing. Honestly, it's just trivial. Not worth talking about." She resolutely drank her tea, trying to ignore his concerned expression. He thought she was perfect. He'd said as much many times in the past several weeks. How could she let him see this weakness in her?

An uncharacteristic silence stretched out between them. In the past four months, they had talked freely about everything. It was hard to keep this from him now. And he was looking at her with almost Sherlockian intensity. "You're not upset, are you? You're . . . worried about something. Mary, what is it? Please, let me help."

She couldn't respond, and the silence built a wall between them. Unable to lift her eyes to his face, she gazed at his hands; his right hand was massaging his left, trying to hide the tremor, and it made her heart ache. Finally it seemed he couldn't restrain himself any longer. He burst out, "Mary, you're the strongest, most fearless, most self-reliant person I've ever met; and I've spent a good part of my life in the military, so I've had a lot of experience with brave and self-assured people. I . . . I know you don't need anybody. You are more than capable of handling any situation by yourself. But I'd like you to know . . . you don't have to. I'm here for you, if you want me."

Was it true? Mary had never had anyone but herself to depend on since she was six years old. She had lived her life like a clenched fist, tightly closed in on herself. Could she really allow herself open her hand and let someone take care of her for a while? No, she couldn't. No one was trustworthy. No one was reliable. No one, except for John Watson. She drew a deep breath and took a chance.

"I told you my mother died when I was four. What I didn't tell you was that no one told me she had died. As far as I was concerned, she just vanished. Then my nanny walked out and never came back. I've never found out what happened to her. She was just gone."

John reached out and took her hands in his. "And then your father disappeared, too, with no explanation," he concluded, understanding.

She nodded. "I'd still not know what had happened to him if it weren't for you. Well, you and Sherlock," she added, a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. It felt somehow good to talk about it. She'd never talked about her fears before, with anyone, and now that she'd got started, she found the words gushing out like water through a broken dike. "When I was six, my father sent me away to England to live with distant relatives. I'd always lived in India—it was hard, coming here alone to live with strangers. And no one kept me long. A few months here, a year to so there. Then I mostly lived in various boarding schools. Once, I came back for a break from school to the cousin who was meant to be looking after me, and found they'd left on holiday and hadn't bothered to tell me."

"That's outrageous! What on earth did you do?" John exclaimed, and she wondered why he sounded so angry.

"Oh, it was all right. I was twelve years old, hardly a baby. I just lived in their house and ate their food until it was time to go back to school. It was only a few weeks. Actually," Mary's mouth quirked in an ironic smile, "it was quite lovely, not having to deal with people for a while." She stopped, unable to get the point of the story she was telling.

And she didn't need to. "You were afraid I'd vanished, like everyone else," John stated gently.

She studied his hands, now both perfectly steady, which were gripping her own hands tightly. "Silly, isn't it?" she whispered, ashamed. "I just kept thinking of what might be happening to you; all the different reasons you might never come back."

"Not silly in the least," he declared. "I can't think of anything more reasonable."

Now at last she felt she could lift her eyes to his, although she was afraid of what she might see there. She did not want his pity, and she feared his contempt. But what she saw on his face was a fierce affection. "I promise you, love, I will never leave you as you want me around," he said softly. "I have a dangerous job and I can't always know what might happen; but I swear I will not just disappear without a word. I will do whatever it takes to let you know where I am, no matter what."

Now she was well and truly embarrassed. "No, John, don't be ridiculous. You don't have to cater to my childish fears. I can deal with it."

His eyes lit up with admiration. "Oh, I know you can. You're the strongest, most fearless, most extraordinary person I've ever known. You've coped with everything life's thrown you with courage and grace. But you don't have to cope with things alone anymore. We can deal with it together."

What an odd sensation, to not be alone; to have someone to rely on; someone who understood how she felt; someone who saw the real her, with all her fears and imperfections and still wanted her.

"And I'll tell you something," John went on, now lost in his own indignation. "It's a good thing your father was murdered already**, **because if he were still alive I'd have to track him down and kill him myself! What the hell was he thinking, sending his baby daughter to be passed about among strangers? What kind of father leaves his child to cope on her own like that?"

And Mary laughed, because he cared enough to be angry on her behalf for sins committed against her which she had never even thought about. It was just her life and she had accepted it for what it was. It had never occurred to her that what had been done to her had been wrong, or that she had somehow been exceptional in overcoming her difficult circumstances. Seeing herself through John's eyes was a revelation, and it warmed her heart to know that he saw her for what she was and still thought she was perfect.

And so, she grabbed onto him with both hands and kissed him and never wanted to let him go.


	5. Chapter 5

This chapter takes place immediately after the events of my story "Red-Handed" and the chapter of "Making Friends and Forming Alliances" entitled "Red-Handed Revisited." Thanks to Ennui Enigma for the initial idea.

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"Now let me hold your hand.

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

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The tentative touch of a hand on her shoulder pulled her halfway out of her nightmare with a gasp. Subconsciously, her own hand reached up and grasped the hand that was gently shaking her, but immediately she let go and pushed it away. Even in her sleep, she knew that this was not John's hand, and she only wanted John. The persistent beeping of the monitors and the antiseptic smell filled her senses. Dragging herself into full wakefulness, she opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock in a haze of confusion. The studied look of irritation on his face barely concealed his concern. Mary was not fooled.

She looked around at the hospital room and reality slammed into her awareness with a ruthlessness that took her breath away. She had fallen asleep in the armchair by John's bed. John. John, whom she'd almost lost today. John, who was the entire world. The events of the day crowded back into her mind all in an instant: Greg's call, informing her that John had been stabbed in the back on a case that morning; Sherlock in a frantic state, covered with John's blood and going into shock in the hospital waiting room; and then all the waiting. Waiting to see if John would survive the trauma and the blood loss of his wound. Waiting to see if his surgery would be successful. Waiting for him to be released from recovery. And now, they were waiting for him to wake up.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock informed her in accusing tone. "I didn't mean to startle you, but you were crying and . . . sobbing . . . audibly. It was annoying."

Mary palmed the tears from her face and smiled at him, interpreting his remarks to mean that he was worried about her and wanted to make her feel better. She hoped she had not hurt his feelings by thrusting his hand away so abruptly. She and Sherlock had spent a good part of the day holding hands, trying to comfort each other as they waited for news of John.

She reached over to the bed and grasped John's hand, gazing at his peaceful face. He looked so young, composed in rest. She knew sleep was the best healer, and yet she longed for him to wake up and look at her, just to let her know he was really going be all right.

"I dreamed he was gone," she whispered to Sherlock, not taking her eye from John's face. "He promised he wouldn't leave me, but he left me alone." She turned accusing eyes to her friend. "You disappeared, too. You both left me."

Sherlock frowned. "I am not to be held responsible for what I might do your nightmares," he informed her. "Obviously John is not gone, and neither am I."

Mary laughed shakily. "Thank God for that. I'm glad you stayed with us, Sweetheart." She took the detective's hand in her free hand and squeezed it gratefully. People had been coming and going all day—Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. But it was now nearing two o'clock in the morning, and they were now alone, listening to the monitors and waiting for John.

Mary stood and tried to work out the kinks in her back from sleeping in the chair. "Sherlock, would you mind getting us some tea. I'm perishing for a cuppa."

Sherlock made a face. "The tea here is sub-standard at best," he protested.

"It's what we have. Unless you want to go get a take-away from somewhere," Mary insisted. "Please." She looked him in the eye, pleading with him to understand.

He stared back, deducing, and finally nodded. "You haven't been alone with him since he got out of surgery. You wish to have a few moments to yourself, I can't imagine why. I'll give you twenty minutes." He half-smiled wryly and walked out. Mary's conscience smote her. Sherlock was as terrified of losing John as she was. This was pure selfishness on her part, and he knew it, and yet he was willing to give her this bit of time. How anyone could believe the detective was cold and heartless was beyond her understanding.

She returned to her chair beside John, her fiancé of less than one week, and gripped his hand in both of hers, pressing it against her tear-stained cheek. In the six months they had been seeing each other, she had become intimately familiar with his hands, knowing each callus and tiny scar and the feel of his fingers laced through hers. She sighed and kissed his palm, holding his hand against her lips for long moment. It had been so close, and she was so grateful for his life.

This was exactly the kind of situation that she had been dreading. Two months ago, she had doubted she would able to handle such a close call. Two months ago, she was barely able to handle his being three hours late for a date! But today had been terrifying, and she had not lost control of herself. She had, she admitted, had a minor melt-down after the crisis was over and had soaked poor Molly's blouse. But other than that, she had remained strong and calm throughout—and surely she had deserved the release of that torrent of tears after being stoic for most of the day.

"We did it, John," she whispered to him. "You kept your promise and didn't leave me; and I managed not to get myself fitted with a straightjacket. You were right. I can do this. I can handle anything if you're with me."

To her joy, he stirred a bit and mumbled, "Good . . . work."

"Oh, John!" she gasped with relieved laughter, and to her horror began to weep again, hiding her face in his palm. "Thank God!"

"Sorry . . . careless. . . ." he struggled to open his eyes.

"Silly. It was an accident. Not your fault," Mary was laughing and crying at once. "Good job not dying. That was well done."

He gave up on eye-opening and let a quirky smile suffice. "Anything . . . for you."

"And you've no idea how many panic-attacks I didn't have today," she added proudly.

His hand, which she still held against her face, gently stroked her cheek. "That's my girl," he murmured, drifting off to sleep again.

By the time Sherlock returned with the admittedly abominable tea, Mary's composure was intact and her face cleaned up, ready to face whatever the future might have in store. She and John would be invincible together, hand in hand.


End file.
